Relapse
by louvreangel
Summary: She didn't know that it would last all night long. She didn't know that it would last for years. (Kinda AU, warnings inside. One-Shot.)


**_Warning: _**_T__his story has a very depressing, dark atmosphere. Molly is quite a weak girl and Sherlock is kinda heartless. Not really a happy ending. Sherlock is like her drug and well... she keeps relapsing. _

**_A/N: _**_English is not my native language so please ignore my grammar mistakes if there are any. Thanks!_

**_Disclaimer:_**_ I own nothing but this fanfiction. All credit goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC._

_Beta'd by Bellarsam Chrisjulittle._

* * *

The girl was looking out of the window, watching the rain silently. The book in front of her laid there untouched, her tea already gone cold. She wasn't just a simple college girl, but a girl who's seen more than any other young college girl out there. This cruel world, ruled by a God she believed gave her a life nobody would like to trade even if they were offered money. She had been bullied constantly throughout middle school, and when she came to high school and thought everything was going to get better, the cruel world hit her once more: because she studied so much, she was always left alone. She had no one by her side, and then suddenly, one day, her father died of heart failuire. The doctors couldn't understand the reason, and it was still a mystery what caused the heart failuire of her precious father.

But when she thought every possible bad thing had happened to her and nothing else was left, her mother started seeing another man—who was an alcoholic. Her mother was considering remarrying while her daughter was studying for her university exams. Then she found out she passed the exams. She knew her mother was a lost cause, so she packed her things and left a note on the dining room table to let her mother know that she'd be gone when she saw the note. She said there was a better world out there than the one she was living in right now.

So she moved to London from Brighton and didn't look back. Not even once.

* * *

The day she thought her life got better was the day that she saw this mysterious boy for the first time. She was in a hurry to get to her Anatomy class and had dropped her books, when she bumped into someone and looked up angrily to see who it was. That's when she saw _him_. The boy with crystal blue eyes, dark curly hair and sharp cheekbones. Her heart had skipped a beat at how handsome he was, but when she saw the look in his beautiful eyes, she knew he was nothing more than a magnificent _statue._ His eyes held no emotion, his face showing nothing but anger. Anger towards _her_. She was about to apologize—even though it was him who had bumped into her—when the boy walked passed her, not looking back. She had stood there dumbfounded.

"_Excuse me_," she had said mockingly, but she knew he couldn't hear her. She'd kept watching him until he was finally out of her sight.

In the end, she was late for class and never saw the boy again.

* * *

She was a grown woman now: twenty-five years old, new in her job but not an ameteur. She'd followed her dreams, become a pathologist, and now there she stood in front of a cadaver, wearing her latex gloves proudly. She was proud of herself. Despite everything that'd happened in her past, she hadn't given up on life, or on herself. She'd kept going, knowing one day things would get better. She had faith and nothing could change that. Then her excitement got the best of her and she started humming a song, opening up the cadaver at the same time.

Yet, even her _excitement_ didn't last long.

The doors of the laboratory swung open, and she dropped the lancet in her hand. She cursed under her breath while she picked it up. But she dropped the lancet again when she saw someone was standing right in front of her.

"Oh my..." She first looked at the lancet on the floor, then the blood stains it had caused on her labcoat, and then the person in front of her. It only took her a minute to take in everything. He had this long trenchcoat on him, a blue scarf, and formal clothing beneath the coat. When she looked at his face, she recognised him immediately. How could she not? This was the boy she had fallen in love with at first sight. This was the boy she'd only seen once in her life and could never forget. The only difference was this: he wasn't a _boy_ anymore. He was a handsome man, and still had those cold eyes.

The man's eyebrows furrowed and he tilted his head to his side, examining her closely. This made her feel uncomfortable all of a sudden. The way he looked at her made her feel..._naked_. He stood close, looking at every inch of her body. If she had known he was deducing her, she would have stopped him right at that moment. But it was too late now. He had already started talking, revealing the things even she didn't know about herself.

Tears had started building in her eyes when he introduced himself. "Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the entire world."

Her cheeks flushed with anger. "I don't even know what _that_ means but this _plain, little pathologist_ who has a name—it's Molly by the way, if you even care–will not help you with anything. Help yourself." She hated the way he'd addressed her a minute ago. Actually, now she hated everything about the guy. He was nothing she thought he'd be. Yes, it was obvious he was a man with probably not a lot of feelings, but his cruelty was an entirely different matter. She was now beyond mad, she was _furious_. He didn't even remember her!

_A mousy girl who's newly graduated, came to St. Bart's because it had better oppurtunities in pathology field, is actually only a plain, little pathologist who might or might not succeed in this field. Only time will tell._

His words echoed in her head and it hit her like a punch in the face every time it echoed.

A tear fell from her eyes and she immediately wiped it away. She didn't want him to see how weak she felt at that moment.

She walked past him and didn't look back, just like he hadn't looked back that day.

* * *

She didn't resign, she didn't leave... She only sat at home and cried for a few days, ignoring him all the while.

Then years passed like this: she got used to his odd behaviour and cruel words. Even though they still hurt, she knew they didn't hurt as bad as they did before. She wouldn't cry anymore. No. Instead, she would drink red wine and read a romance book to ease her pain. She hated the guy, yes, but she also loved him. She knew she had to be crazy to love someone like that, but she had no control over her heart. Especially when, one night, he paid her a visit.

He walked into the house without even waiting for her to say _come in_.

"Can I help you with something, Sherlock?" She'd stopped calling him Mr. Holmes exactly four years ago. Being called Mr. Holmes truly pissed him off because to him, Mr. Holmes was his brother, Mycroft Holmes, and not him.

"You're in love with me," he suddenly stated, and Molly backed off. But she noticed, somehow, she now stood against the wall and he was right in front of her. The wall was blocking her escape so she tried to go past him. It was impossible though, with the tight hold of his hand on her arm. His grasp was strong and daring. She looked up at him angrily and saw him looking right into her eyes.

"How can you be in love with me when you also hate me to the depths?" he asked again, and she struggled against his hold, trying to break free.

"What kind of experiment are you up to now?" she asked him angrily and struggled more fiercely. "Let go of me!" she squeaked like a little girl, feeling more vulnurable than ever.

Instead of letting her go, he crashed his lips to hers. Her mind screamed at her not to kiss him back, but she had no control over her body, nor over her heart. She'd always wondered how his lips would feel upon hers. Now she _knew_, and she was going to enjoy it as long as it lasted.

She didn't know that it would last all night long.

_She didn't know that it would last for years._

* * *

She was looking out of the window, watching the rain silently. The book in front of her laid there untouched, her tea already gone cold. She wasn't just a simple pathologist, but a woman who'd seen more than any other person out there. This cruel world, ruled by a God she believed gave her a life nobody would like to trade even if they were offered money. She had an ugly past with so many sorrows, so many tears, so much hatred. But the present was even _worse_. She was in love with a man who would never love her back. The worst part was, she let him use her in _any way_ he pleased. He would want access to the lab, he would make her serve him tea and when she didn't give him what he wanted, he would pay her a visit at night and make the most beautiful love to her.

And tonight would be no different.

He'd wanted access to the lab, to examine a woman's body, saying it was extremely important for a case. She'd said no because she was being stubborn, and because she wanted to talk to him that night. She was not going to keep being his puppy that followed him everywhere. No. She was going to stand her ground and tell him _whatever this was_, it was _over_.

She heard him open the door—picking the lock, which she hated the most—and approach her with slow but loud steps. He wanted to make his presence known. He needn't have done that, though. Because she would always smell him, formed with mostly cigarettes and his favourite cologne—also _her_ favourite.

She slowly turned around to face him, and he wrapped his arms around her waist. He had a fake smile plastered on his face, and she felt the tears coming again. But this time, it was because she felt _desperate_, not because she was sad he didn't love her back. No, she felt desperate because even _this _part of her life sucked. She wanted happiness, she wanted _love_. She was thirty years old, for God's sake! She couldn't continue loving a man, having sex with him and be done with it. She wanted to settle down, and it couldn't continue like this.

"This has to end," she said with a low voice. But it felt awkward. This has been going on for more than three years now, and she'd been happy with it before. It was obvious that he was shocked and disappointed at the same time.

"You know, you've changed a lot," he finally said after a few minutes of silence. Her eyebrows furrowed and he kept talking. "You're not the mousy little girl I saw years ago."

She had no idea why he was saying these things to her _now_, but she knew she wasn't supposed to fall for his words. "You're right, I am not the _plain, little pathologist_ you met in the lab five years ago," she responded, trying to be done with this odd conversation.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "What are you talking about? I'm talking about the day you bumped into me at college."

"It was _you_ who bumped..." When she realized what he had just said, her automatic response fell into silence. So...he remembered. He _remembered_ and he _knew_ all along. He just hadn't said anything about it.

He put his finger under her chin, and she closed her wide open mouth coyly, seeing one of his rare smiles, a genuine one, was now on his face. He caressed her cheek with his thumb and she closed her eyes at the sensation.

He didn't compliment her much, not even in bed, but when he did, it was beautiful. _You feel wonderful_,he would say sometimes, _you're so good_. She would smile but never respond. He already knew how she felt about him anyway. He didn't need further information.

"If you really wish to end this, just say it once more and I will leave immediately," he whispered in her ear, and she shivered. She didn't see him come closer, she _felt _it, and that excited her—like always.

Could she really end this? She wasn't sure anymore. She also wasn't sure where that determined woman who was so sure of herself a minute ago had gone. She knew the answer, actually: _His charms had worked again_.

And in the end, she just couldn't end it.

* * *

Finding out about the presense of another woman in his life was more devastating than anything that had happened to her throughout her whole life. To make it even worse, the woman was an expert in _sex_. Molly had never been a woman of high self-esteem, and now she felt miserable. Sherlock recognised the woman's dead body from her lower parts – _not her face_. What could possibly happen more to make her feel worse?

Oh, she shouldn't have asked that.

Because then something worse happened. Since the day The Woman came into his life, he stopped coming to Molly's flat. Normally, he came once or twice a week, but for a few weeks now, he hadn't come at all. Even when she refused to show him the body of a murdered man, he didn't come at night. And all of this could mean one thing, one thing she refused to accept.

Drinking a beer and five glasses of wine made her feel strong enough to make her way to Baker Street at eleven p.m. The road felt longer than normal, and she felt like she was suffocating. What was she going to say to him anyway? They weren't _a thing_. She had no right to go ask him why he didn't come over last night. Or the night before. It was _her_ home, not _his_. Why would he come anyway?

She decided she would go back home, but then found herself knocking the door. Why was her body betraying her at a time like_ this_? She couldn't even think straight! Her head was spinning and her thoughts were all blurred. She shouldn't have come here in the first place.

When no one answered the door, she took the oppurtunity to escape and turned around to leave. But before she could even take a step, the door swung open, and she knew acting like she didn't hear the door wouldn't work.

"Oh, Molly dear, come in please. Here to see Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked in a cheerful voice. Molly had thought Sherlock would open the door because Mrs. Hudson would be asleep at this time of night. Appearently she was wide awake, and this was Molly's chance to escape.

"Oh it's nothing, really, I'd better get going," she said hurriedly, not even trying to come up with an excuse and turned around to leave. Her steps were fast but out of balance. She wasn't brave enough to face him, she wasn't brave enough to talk to him. She was a coward, but there was nothing she could do about it.

"Molly."

She stopped in her tracks when she heard him call her name. She looked behind her but he wasn't there. Her brows furrowed and she looked up to see Sherlock was at the window, looking at her. They stared at each other for a few minutes when Molly decided to keep walking. She wasn't ready to talk, she just wasn't ready.

"_Molly Hooper_, come here _right now_." His words were sharp and loud enough for her to hear. This made her stop and make her way back to 221B. Mrs. Hudson was looking at her with a small, knowing smile on her face, but she uttered no word. They both said their goodnights and Molly, stumbling at the same time, climbed the stairs to 221B. The door was open, inviting her in. She hesitantly went into the flat and saw Sherlock standing in the middle of the room, staring at her.

"You're drunk," he stated and walked towards her. This made her move backwards but he was faster. He closed the door behind her, trapping her body between the door and him.

That's when she finally couldn't hold herself in any longer and started crying. "You recognised her from...from not her face!" she yelled at him and punched his chest. "You know how I feel for you and yet you still do _this_ to me! Don't you see how much it hurts me to only be a _toy_ to you? Can't you _at least_ love me as a _friend_?" She kept punching his chest with her small fists until he finally captured her hands within his own.

They stood there silently for what seemed like ages to Molly. Then he put his hands on her cheeks, staring into her eyes with such a softness she never knew Sherlock was capable of. But the spell was broken when he let go of her abruptly and turned his back to her.

"I cannot give you what you ask of me, Molly. You know that. You've always known that. I am sorry." That was all he said before he started playing his violin, ignoring her completely. She knew she was going to feel horrible in the morning, but she was just too tired to leave now. Also, she didn't have much money left in her wallet to pay for a cab. So she went to Sherlock's bedroom and laid on his bed, falling asleep while listening to his beautiful music.

* * *

In the morning, she heard two man talking and she eavesdropped out of curiosity.

"You know _Molly_ is in _your bedroom_, right?" She recognised the voice to be John Watson's.

"Yes, John, thank you for deducing the obvious," she heard Sherlock snap at him.

But neither said another word. Then, even though she knew John was still in the flat, she went into the living room to find Sherlock looking at the wall full of papers and newspaper pieces. She sighed, noticing John was in the kitchen. And just like that, she left the flat and never looked back.

* * *

_She knew this was finally the right time. _

She had to leave and start a new life. She was aging and there was no turning back time. Up until now, her life had been a complete mess. She wanted to change that. She wanted to be the strong, independent woman she always longed to be but never had the courage to be. But now she _knew_ she _had to _get away from him to do all of that. She had to leave him behind to become the woman she always wanted to be. Forgetting him completely was going to open a new door, a new path to her new life. But it wasn't easy.

She cried her lungs out while packing her things. She resigned from St. Bart's, bought her plane ticket, all set to go. She looked around the flat to see how empty it was now, how deserted. But she was only taking a few pieces of luggage with her. If she wanted to make a new start, she would have to let go of her things, too. She was going to buy a new house, new furniture for it and also new clothing, new _everything_.

This was her life and _finally_, she had control over it. She would never again let anyone use her like he had. She would never allow herself to fall stupidly in love again. Then again, deep down inside, she knew she would _never_ fall in love again anyway. Because she was _already_ in love and she would always be. Her love towards him would last a lifetime, and that was a crystal clear fact.

She was about to leave the flat for the last time when she heard her phone beep. It was a text message and the shocking part was, it was from Sherlock.

_Don't leave. __**–SH**_, was all he wrote, two simple words to prevent her from going. But she'd made up her mind this time. _She was going to leave_. This was her only choice. She didn't want to spend another thirty years with only tears and regrets.

She locked the door to her flat and gave the keys to the tenant. She needed a lot more than just two simple words not to leave. And she knew she would never get that.

* * *

She would never guess, two years after her departure, she would return to London to see the man who caused her to leave in the first place. Finding out that he'd been shot turned her whole world upside down, and she took the first plane to come back to London. The worst thing was that he'd also killed a man. It was said that he'd gotten shot when he'd shot this other man, a gunfire actually. But the newspapers never told the truth. Plus, she wanted to see how bad his condition was with her own eyes.

Now she was sitting on the chair in his hospital room, staring at him with tired eyes. She hadn't slept on the plane, and she hadn't slept since she'd come to the hospital yesterday. She was staying at a hotel, but staying there seemed to be a stupid idea. All in all, she came here to see _him_ so she was going to stay at the hospital to see him open his eyes. The doctors said he was healing and she believed that. She _wanted_ to believe that.

John and Mary were at home, taking care of the baby. Molly assured them that if he opened his eyes, she would tell them. They were so happy that she'd come back. They missed her, just as Molly missed them. All of them.

When she couldn't fight her eyelids anymore, she let them close for a while.

Then she heard him whisper: "Molly."

Her eyes snapped open and she got up from her chair, standing at the side of the bed. His eyes were half open, and his shaky hand was moving towards her. She, with tears streaming down her cheeks, held his hand and squeezed it lightly. He was alive, _thank God_, he was alive. What could she want more from life? Fate had smiled at her for once in her life, and didn't take the man she love away from her.

"I'm here," she whispered and smiled at him.

"Are you... back?" His voice was low, his eyes slowly closing again.

She gave a light squeeze to his hand again. "For a while," was all she could say. Because she wasn't back. No, she was going to return to her new life once he got all better. This was her _old life_ and she wasn't going to stick with it again. She made a fresh start and she wasn't going to ruin it.

"Good," he said and closed his eyes, falling into a peaceful sleep.

Then she stayed there all night long, and kept her eyes on him every second of the night.

She didn't know she would stay even after he got all better.

_She didn't know she would stay for years._

* * *

**_Hope you enjoyed it (:_**

**_See you on another Sherlolly fanfic..._**

**_xoxo Louvreangel_**


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